A burst of metal, a tortured squeal as it tore. After he landed back in the rubble, the Slayer double-jumped again. He grabbed the end of the new hole in the ship, and boosted up.
He got to his feet and swiveled in place, high atop the shuttle's chassis. The ship had collided with the front of the base, blocking the entrance with fiery wreckage. Half of the ship was still intact, but flames were ravaging the entirety of it, as well as a portion of the base. Thick black smoke billowed from the destroyed shuttle, rising high into the sky.
The courtyard of the base was littered with garbage and debris, and Weequay pirates had gathered down there and were aiming from the distant perimeter towers. A scan-count revealed 75 of them, all spread out. And nearly all of them screamed and opened fire on him once they realized he was out of the shuttle.
He was fully aware of his appearance: bloodsoaked, sooty, imposing, surrounded by fire and darkened. The Slayer knew how important psychological warfare was, and most of the time, his efforts worked. He had no reason to believe it wasn't now.
The Slayer hefted his blaster chaingun, ignoring the blasterfire. Time to get to work.
The chaingun whined up before spewing blasterfire down upon the pirates below. Bolts of red stitched the earth in little bursts and felled pirates caught in its path. A few sweeps later, and a good ten of them had already fallen.
The Slayer wasn't even focusing all that much; he was busy thinking if he should pursue Jiro before he fled the base completely, or if he should just wipe out the rest of the pirates here. No time like the present–
Heavy eruptions echoed from the surrounding guard turrets, six enormous red blaster bolts zoomed out, and the wreckage he was standing on exploded beneath him. The Slayer was hurled into the air.
He plummeted thirty feet into the fireball beneath him, and landed in a crouch amid the fiery ruins.
He looked up to glare at the turrets. Now he was pissed off.
Setting the rotary cannon to full auto, he held the handle with one hand while he withdrew his plasma rifle with the other. Aiming the two guns independently of each other, the Slayer sprinted forth and wreaked havoc in the courtyard.
Rapid-fire shots of blue and red plasma were streaming from both weapons, cutting a swath of apocalyptic doom to the pirates, exploding their rifles, collapsing shoddy shady structures, turning parked speeder bikes into sparking scrap, and heavily denting the durasteel plating of the hovertanks parked on the edges of the courtyard. The sounds of ricocheting dinks, fleshy impacts, firing weapons, deafening explosions, and roars filled the Slayer's ears.
Pirates who exposed themselves from behind cover so they could shoot just dropped dead. The pirates screamed in pain, yelled orders in panic, and bellowed short-lived taunts, as well as words unfamiliar to the Slayer like "Sleemo," "Schutta," and "Kriffing Hell."
Even if he understood them, he wouldn't be fazed. What were the opinions of dead pirates worth?
The double-barrel turrets on the fence bent down and fired again. Twin clumps of earth fountained into the air around the Slayer, then two more, and then one of the blasts got the Slayer right in the chest.
It was like getting hit by a pillow. The Slayer stopped his shooting to glare in irritation up at the turrets.
"Kriff! Oh, kriff, this bantha poodoo's got Beskar!" the pirates manning the turrets screamed.
The Slayer ignored it. Must be an equivalent metal in this universe.
Most of the enemy surface fire had died down by now– so to speak. Bodies and parts of bodies were strewn across the courtyard, coated with dust and grime. The smoking entry points for the blaster and plasma bullets were cauterized, but the impacts had broken bones, ruptured skin and organs, and burnt through muscle. Blood around the bodies seeped into the dry soil and made it damp to the touch.
The Slayer once more drew out his blocky assault rifle and sniped the Weequays operating the turrets. The .50 caliber bullets were so powerful, they passed through their bodies and pinged off the enormous turrets with sparks. Heads disappeared or turned into dark splatters on the turrets. One Weequay had both his arms blown off in quick succession, then his head; he tumbled out of the post and fell beyond the gate. In no time at all, all the pirates manning the turret emplacements fell silent too.
As fun as it would have been to rip the enormous gun out of its mount and beat them over the head with it, Hondo said he needed the place intact.
Not like he had done a good job with that so far. The Slayer turned to the crashed shuttle and winced.
All the Slayer could hear now was the crackling of flames from various places around the courtyard, and the buzzing of the electric fence. Once more, he was alone. And this time, the bodies and blood did not just disappear into sparks. They were human. Mortal. Non-demonic.
The Slayer huffed once those thoughts solidified in his mind. So what if they weren't demons? They were just as bad. Kidnapping, murder, brainwashing, theft? If demons had done those things, he would have killed them. Granted, he would have killed demons even if they hadn't done anything wrong– they were demons! If they hadn't yet, they were going to do abominable things.
The Slayer trudged over to the closest Weequay corpse and looked down on him. It was a fellow with more wrinkles than usual on his beige face. He had two gold earrings in the same ear, an older scar across his eye, ragged hand-me-downs, and half a dozen blaster burn marks all over his torso, still steaming.
What was his story? Did he have a family, a loving group of friends? Probably not, and it didn't matter. Who cared? The Slayer didn't. The instant he resorted to this kind of lifestyle, he had forfeited the right to empathy. He wasn't even violent for a good cause, like the Slayer was. It was just pirating, scummy work.
The Slayer still had work of his own to do. VEGA had been keeping count of the base's hostiles on his HUD, and he had personally eliminated 146 out of the original 167. Twelve had managed to flee the compound to who-knows-where. The remaining nine were somewhere in the compound.
"Security footage has revealed that Jiro has just fled, along with the Jedi. He is evidently seeking reinforcements from his allies in nearby bases. When you see him again, he will bring a posse."
Good.
The Slayer turned to face the crashed shuttle blocking the entrance and rolled his neck, cracking it.
Once more unto the breach.
Ever since the strange man in dark green armor had made those strange tactical hand signs to her, Nerissa had wondered what was going on. He was coming to her rescue, and surely he needed to secure this terrible place first, but he was alone. What could one man do against the evil holding her captive?
There had been explosions and tremors vibrating through the rock walls that had rattled Nerissa. Trails of dust had sprinkled from the low ceiling and settled in her hair. She was even now squinting at the force field, staying back just in case a pirate came by. What was going on out there?
Then she heard it. Screaming, the pounding of feet on metal. Panting, deep breaths. A deafening blast that could be heard through the force field. A thud on the metal, more screaming.
A filthy young pirate in decade-old clothes crawled into view on the left. He was scrambling backwards, trailing blood on the floor from a hole torn out of his leg. His arms were up as he addressed something outside Nerissa's view.
"Oi! You bloody nut! I surrender, d'ya hear? I don' wanna fight, I-"
Kablam. His skull turned to a spatter of paste on the floor.
Nerissa's empty stomach churned awfully, and she had to breathe through her mouth. Her foot began to tap uncontrollably, and she looked up with trepidation.
Two heavy footsteps later, the same man came into view. His dark green armor, from head to toe, had been blackened by soot and stained entirely red with blood. Nerissa could almost see the hatred radiating off him, like heat waves. Hanging from his hand was a gun model Nerissa had never seen before.
The man turned to her, and Nerissa froze up. Nothing could be seen through his visor, and for all she knew, he could be glaring at her.
This was not a bounty hunter, clone commando, or ARC trooper. He was something far, far more dangerous.
He punched the control panel, and the rock it was embedded into shattered. Pebbles scattered over Nerissa's cell, and the plasma field dissipated.
The man looked at her for a few more moments. Nerissa did not uncurl herself and only looked back over the tops of her knees.
The man made an urging motion with his head, then turned back the way he came and stomped out of sight.
What other choice was there? At least it was open. Nerissa slowly straightened her sore legs, then got to her hands and knees, then on two feet. She slowly walked to the entrance and ducked her head to step out; even though she was only 5 '6, the natural cave ceiling was small. Nerissa managed to avoid stepping her bare feet into the gore the pirate-slayer had left behind.
The rest of the cells in this hallway were being punched open by the Slayer. Faces poked out, familiar ones. There were eight in total, all wearing the same plain white garments Nerissa was. She knew they were still alive, but seeing their faces was something else.
One of them, upon spotting her, broke into a broad smile. He was bald, middle-aged, and bearded. "Nerissa!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms. His entire voice just oozed gentlemanly manners. "You're alive!"
"Captain Daska?" another prisoner asked the man. "Are you all right?"
"The senator's the first priority," Captain Daska firmly answered.
Nerissa, after a moment, nodded. "I'm all right. I'm safe."
"All thanks to him." One of the prisoners jutted his head at the imposing Slayer. "Hey, sir? Are we all escaping together?"
The Slayer swiveled around. He nodded. And he turned his back again.
"Geez, he coulda said something," the man muttered.
"We follow him," Nerissa spoke up. The attention of the men all came to her, and she faltered for words before continuing. "He can be trusted. So far. But we need supplies and weapons first."
The Slayer ushered them on with a wide sweeping arm, and the prisoners began to hesitantly follow him deeper into the caves.
Captain Daska hovered near Nerissa at the rear, and he leaned his head to her ear. "Senator, I trust your judgment. But this is no clone trooper; the Republic didn't send him. If he turns on us, I won't be able to protect you."
"I know you would try," Nerissa murmured back. "And I would be grateful."
"But you would put your life into a stranger's hands?"
"He won't be a stranger soon," Nerissa explained. "And I'd rather it be in his hands than these pirates."
The Slayer led the prisoners to the cargo cave he had entered from. He could understand their trepidation, but what could he do to prove his trust?
As he passed beneath the cave archway and back into the dark cargo bay, blue pixelated outlines of several nearby crates blinked into existence.
"Access to the base's computers gave me records of the supplies," VEGA explained. "The prisoners can find what they need in the outlined crates. I have also discovered a means of transport which can get you all back to Hondo without needing to tow his tanks back. Now that the base is secure, he can retrieve them himself."
That had been something the Slayer hadn't been looking forward to, and he slumped in satisfaction. At least he didn't need to bother.
The Slayer moved to the indicated crates and busted them open with a fist, one by one. He quickly set them aside, then began perusing the rest of the crates; some more had now been outlined with red pixels instead.
"The pirates have also been shipping weapons, and a good number of them are hidden here," VEGA continued. "I believe you will find several of interest."
Now intrigued, the Slayer began bursting the locks on the new crates and creaking open the lids or knocking them away. Out of the corner of his eye, the Slayer spotted the nine prisoners raking through the dozen-odd crates for weapons, clothes, and food. He would have time to find what he needed.
One of the busted metal crates contained a surface resembling a 48-egg carton. But instead of eggs, there were shiny little grenades, innocently awaiting delivery.
"These are thermal detonators. They have a blast radius up to twenty meters and an arming phase from six to eighteen seconds. You will find them a useful addition to your arsenal."
The Slayer smiled and took the collection of detonators out of its crate. Soon it was in hammerspace. The Slayer turned his attention to the next crate. It contained four black guns about as long as his forearm with a stand folded at an angle along the barrel.
"This is a DC-15S, the most common and reliable weapon used by Republic forces. It uses blaster bolts like the Z-6 Rotary Cannon you picked up earlier, but more controlled, compact, and accurate. It would be essential to have one, considering how common tibanna gas is in the galaxy."
Nodding, the Slayer picked up two and moved to the last crate. It contained three lightweight but evidently effective rocket launchers. A dozen large magazines were packed under the first layer of the crate. The Slayer loaded one in, then hefted it in his hands. It was thin, and easy to point.
"This is an RPS-6 rocket launcher. It carries six small but deadly rockets in its magazine. This can supplement your own rocket launcher, since it was made by the UAC and requires specific ammo."
The Slayer grinned and deposited it into hammerspace, along with five magazines. The rest he put back in the crate.
"Now for the transportation. The pirates were hiding this from Hondo, hoping to use it in territory battles. It will now be put to better use."
And an industrial whirr buzzed to life, along with the clanking of chains.
The Slayer looked up. The cave had been so spacious that there had been something enormous hiding in the darkness, higher up from the Slayer's normal field of view. It was now being slowly lowered, whatever it was.
The prisoners had now been fitted with clothing that wasn't rags, and were chowing down on simple nutrition bars and pointing into the rafters. As it descended more in the dim light, the Slayer could see what it was more fully.
It was a hovercraft of sorts, a bit wider than a Semi truck and about as long. It was split into three sections: the compact driver's cabin and two trailing pieces connected by arm-thick cables. Indented into the driver's cabin was the thin glass windshield and windows, and the sharp cow catcher protruded like a ship's bow. The hovertrain was geometric, black, full of spikes, and heavily armored in rounded plates, with a set of automated swivel guns atop both of the boxcars and four forward-facing guns on the cabin. There were ports on the sides which could allow infantry fire as well, and an open machine gun nest was mounted on the rear of the second car.
This was going to do nicely.
The hovertrain settled to the floor of the cave. The prisoners quickly surrounded it and began to inspect its various features. The Slayer, meanwhile, tramped to the driver's side door and opened it. The interior was worn, used, and personalized.
"This hovertrain will also give space for your speeder bike, along with other supplies you and the prisoners may need," VEGA concluded. "I will plug myself into the navigation system, and we can soon be on our way."
"If I may, sir?"
The Slayer turned, taken aback at the long-defunct honorific. Captain Daska was there, hands clasped behind his back.
"Well, as a registered pilot, and since you seem best equipped to shield us from the dangers on the road, I wanted to volunteer my services as the driver."
The Slayer couldn't see why not. He stepped aside, and the gentleman climbed up to the well-worn driver's seat. Daska began to run his fingers over the controls experimentally.
Quickly locating his speeder and uncovering it, he maneuvered it to the unopened ramp in the rear. Daska quickly figured out the lever to lower the ramp, and once it had done so, the Slayer pushed it in.
The civilians quickly hoisted several cases of supplies inside as well. Even though each of them were armed, the Slayer loaded more crates of blasters, rocket launchers, and thermal detonators inside, after giving a spare DC-15 and grenade to each civilian. Three officers headed into each of the two trailing cars, and Senator Nerissa and one more officer got into shotgun right beside Daska. And the Slayer hoisted himself to the top of the hovertrain with a yank on the edge and a double-jump. He took his position in the open-air turret seat on the rear of the train.
The hovertrain doors slammed shut and locked. The hovertrain whirred to life. Lights on the side blinked on, and a wind beneath the vehicle stirred the dust into swirls.
A few more moments passed as VEGA integrated himself into the navigation. After the coordinates were set and a few last-minute control experiments, the hovertrain slowly wobbled out of the dim cave. It rounded one of the slow bends, then the next.
"This handles like a drunk bantha," Daska commented. Courtesy of VEGA's integration, the Slayer could overhear everything in the driver's cabin. For better or worse.
Light blasted into the Slayer's vision from the mid-afternoon sun, and his optical polarizers cut the glare by seventy-eight percent. By the time his vision readjusted, the hovertrain was parked in front of the closed electric gate. In the control booth way below, the two bodies still lay bloodied and bullet-punctured.
With a downward winding, the violet electric gate fizzled out. The Slayer was confused for a second before remembering that VEGA was still in the base's computers.
"So long," Nerissa dryly said. "You won't be missed."
The purring hovertrain jerked to life again, and it quickly sped up as it left the base behind. The Slayer turned to see it go. Smoke was rising from the courtyard, a clear symbol to the pirates of the wasteland that they were no longer safe.
What would that drive them to do? Now that they were speeding away from the defensible position of the base and exposed in the desert wasteland, they were open to a counterattack.
The Slayer gripped the handles of the twin-cannon turret a bit tighter. He welcomed it.